


Unshackled

by Naralanis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Cissamione, F/F, have a lil cup of PAIN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-10 05:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19900357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naralanis/pseuds/Naralanis
Summary: Hermione is at a crossroads. Narcissa helps her by making a terribly difficult decision for them both.Part Two coming soon.





	1. Chapter 1

The door creaked open slowly, loud enough to be heard even with the roaring thunderstorm outside. Their usual room was dark save for the fireplace and a few candles projecting eerie shadows on the cracked paint of the walls. 

“Hello, darling. I’ve been expecting you.” 

Hermione closed the door behind her, muttering a locking spell under her breath. Narcissa waited for her by the fireplace, swirling a glass of Firewhisky in her hand. Hermione was momentarily distracted by the glimmering of the flames upon the glass. 

“I got your owl,” she said, eyeing the glass warily. Narcissa was not a big drinker; breaking out some of Ogden’s finest usually meant nothing good. “Is everything alright?” 

There was a tentative smile in response, one that turned into a grimace that Narcissa could not hold back. Despite the darkness, the tear-tracks upon her cheeks were plainly visible; her blue eyes were bloodshot and puffy. 

“I wanted to celebrate,” she said in a broken whisper, barely heard over the thunder. She raised her glass, hand tremulous in the air. “To Hermione Granger, Minister of Magic.” 

“Stop that,” Hermione hissed, closing the distance between them in a few tentative steps. She held Narcissa’s face in her hands, gaze boring deep into those sad blue eyes to make herself understood. “Stop it. I’m not running.” 

Narcissa’s smile was heart-breaking. The glass of whisky clinked onto the mantle, and she leaned into Hermione’s touch with longing that didn’t have to be there, shouldn’t have to be there. Not there, not then. 

“Maybe not this year,” she conceded weakly, grasping Hermione’s wrists in a tender grip. “You’re a war hero, a decorated Auror. You will run—and you will win. It’s only a matter of time.” One of her hands caressed the brunette’s cheek with sorrowful longing, and her voice came in a murmur of bitter acceptance. “We both know you want it.” 

Hermione shook her head vehemently, feeling the heat of tears pooling at her eyes as she tried so desperately to lie, both to herself and to Narcissa. She wanted it not to be a lie, she wanted not to want. “No. Not like this.” 

Narcissa stepped back, wiping at her cheeks. Her fair skin was pallid, lips devoid of colour. Her eyes, usually bright, glimmering pools of blue, were now tempestuous lakes of grey framed by dark circles. “I’m afraid so, darling.” 

Hermione followed, grasping Narcissa’s arm beseechingly. “No,” she breathed out, trying to keep sobs from tearing through her chest. Her world threatened to crumble around her, and her heart teetered off the ledge of a precipice of unending black. “It doesn’t have to be this way. We can... we can...” 

Narcissa turned, pressing a finger onto Hermione’s lips with a desperate insistence. “Please,” she whispered in a breathless gasp that ripped through Hermione’s heart. “Please. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. We cannot keep this a secret forever, and...” she whimpered, biting her lip as if she did not want to voice the ugly truths they had been skirting around since they began this madness. “Associating with someone like me... it would kill your career.” 

“You were _pardoned”,_ Hermione cried. Her heart hammered in her chest with the same intensity as the vociferous thunder outside. “It doesn’t... It _shouldn’t_ matter!” 

“But it does,” came Narcissa’s bitterly resigned murmur. “And I would never make you choose between your career and me.” 

Hermione turned to embrace Narcissa, to hold her tight, as if the woman were to disappear if she didn’t hold on. She lost herself in the lie that left her lips. “I choose you. Fuck my bloody career, I’ll always choose you.” 

It was a laugh, a sob, that tore through Narcissa’s chest this time. Hermione hated the sound, she hated how dead Narcissa’s eyes looked, how lifeless and broken her expression was. Most of all, she hated how Narcissa already _knew_ it was a lie before Hermione could decide what to believe herself. 

Narcissa’s hands on her cheeks were soft, so soft. They wiped away at Hermione’s tears with a tenderness the brunette felt she did not deserve. A caress meant to soothe only inflated her shame, her deep guilt. She was staring into the bottomless pools of Narcissa’s eyes, getting lost in them, drowning. 

“Please, Narcissa,” she begged. “I love you.” 

“I know,” Narcissa wept. “I know you do. And you know...” she looked away, and Hermione felt absolutely wretched and disgusting. “We _both_ know that isn’t enough to save this.” 

Narcissa pulled away, and Hermione felt the warmth of her touch leave her, a wisp of smoke from an old smouldering fire. “Please don’t...” she whispered. “Don’t break my heart like this.” 

Narcissa sank into the nearby armchair, bringing a hand to her mouth to stop her sobs. She was a shadow of her former self; a dejected, heartbroken shell with no life, no energy. She was utterly empty. 

“I don’t want to,” she said. “But this cannot continue.” 

Hermione knelt by her side, letting her tears flow. She rested her head onto Narcissa’s lap, feeling all energy. Narcissa’s hand wound itself into her hair in a soft caress. 

“I wish I didn’t want it.” Hermione whispered into Narcissa’s lap. “I wish it didn’t matter.” 

She felt the rumble of a small, breathless laugh. The hand in her hair stilled momentarily and Narcissa sighed deeply before resuming her gentle caresses, “I know”, she whispered to the darkness. Her other hand found Hermione’s chin, lifting slightly. “But you’re young. It is not fair to take your dreams away from you. You have so much potential” she held back a sob. “I would only hold you back. In time, you would come to resent me.” 

“Never.” Hermione hissed through her tears. “I would never.” She could sense her own lie, and she wished it was the truth. She wished there was no choice to make, she wished her career and the bettering of the Wizarding World did not matter as much—or more—as her love for Narcissa did. 

Narcissa smiled sadly. “Take it from someone who knows,” she cried. “You have much to accomplish, my darling. You cannot do that with me holding you back.” 

Hermione buried her head in Narcissa’s lap, letting her tears soak the other witch’s robes. “I hate this,” she murmured. “It hurts too much.” 

There was silence, with only the crackling of the fire and the rolling thunder outside to break it, for several long moments. Narcissa spoke in a breathless whisper. “I don’t want it to hurt you. That’s why...” the pause was rife with uncertainty, and her tone had dropped to a wavering, questioning drawl. “I could make it all go away.” 

Hermione snapped up to look straight into Narcissa’s questioning blue eyes. She felt her jaw hinge open in utter disbelief. “No. You wouldn’t.” She stood, putting some distance between them. Her heart shattered into a million pieces when Narcissa slowly unsheathed her wand and placed it onto the side table next to her chair. The offer—the threat, almost—hung in the air. “Please, Narcissa. Don’t do this to me.” 

“I won’t,” Narcissa reassured her, looking away from Hermione. “Not without your consent.” 

Hermione barked out a disbelieving laugh. “And what makes you think I would consent to being Obliviated?!” She felt more sobs building up. “I don’t want to forget you.” 

Narcissa sunk even deeper into her seat, winding her fingers together on her lap to hide the tremor of her hands. “Then... I suppose I shall have to convince you.” 

Hermione shook her head, leaning onto the mantle, feeling broken, empty, and thoroughly disoriented. “This is madness. I don’t want to forget you. Our time together.” She turned to meet Narcissa’s gaze. “Your eyes. Your voice. Your laugh.” She held back another sob. “You want me to forget it all, as if it were nothing?” 

“No,” Narcissa whispered. “I want you to forget the shame in keeping this secret. The regret you carry with the lies you tell your friends. I want to erase the guilt you feel in loving me.” The blonde took deep breath, looking away once more, as if she could not bear to face Hermione. “Don’t think of it as taking something away. Think of it... as a parting gift. A fresh start, so you may go on with your life, untethered to the secrets, to the lies, to me... to something that could never be.” 

“A clean-slate.” Hermione murmured, wiping at her tears. She wanted to shout from the rooftops that she did not want it. She wanted to declared her undying love for Narcissa, a love that would trump all else. She wanted to believe they could survive anything. 

She wanted to believe the lie. 

“Precisely,” Narcissa confirmed, taking her wand from the table. Hermione eyed it warily as Narcissa twirled it in her fingers. “You would be free to carry on, unburdened.” 

Hermione grimaced. She grasped at straws, not liking that her heart wavered so strongly towards Narcissa’s preposterous suggestion. “That would be selfish of me. You would still remember.” 

“I am giving you permission to be selfish,” Narcissa countered. “I am giving you a gift. Take it.” 

The young brunette put a hand over her mouth, choking back sobs that only became stronger the more she tried to hold them back. She was cornered—by circumstance, by her career, by this love that consumed her from within. She had been burning for so long; she was burnt out now. 

“I love you,” she breathed out. “So, so much.” She did. But all the love in the world was not enough to save them, and she hated the fact—she wished she could have remained blind to it forever. She hated that Narcissa was so wise, so pragmatic to the point she would give Hermione safe passage through this torment. 

“I know.” Narcissa whispered, raising her wand only slightly, waiting for Hermione’s confirmation, knowing it would be given. “I love you too. More than anything.” 

Hermione cried as she stepped closer, kneeling in front of Narcissa once again. Narcissa leaned toward her, putting their foreheads together to cherish one last moment before all was forgotten. Hermione held her face in her hands. 

“Do it,” she whispered. “I love you. I’m so sorry that’s not enough.” 

Narcissa chuckled sadly, feeling the heat of her tears running down her cheeks anew. She raised her wand to Hermione’s temple, shakily and fearfully. In a moment of despair, Hermione leaned further in, brushing their lips together for one last time. 

“Do it.” 

Narcissa took one last deep breath. “I love you. I’m sorry.” 

Hermione nodded, smiling to hide the bitter heartbreak. “I know. I’m sorry too.” 

Narcissa’s hand still shook as she righted her wand over Hermione’s temple. Thunder crashed outside, and she allowed herself to be lost in Hermione’s softness, her scent, her very essence, one last time. 

“ _Obliviate.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was the pain... Here comes the fluff. Kind of.

** Sixteen Years Later **

No one truly expected to see Minister Granger there, least of all Narcissa. The Minister was not known to frequent these circles—she had made it a point early on in her administration to distance herself from the so-called old guard, the rich witches and wizards from old Pureblood families, those who had controlled weak-willed Ministers with their galleons and connections.

Narcissa figured she was truly desperate to make an appearance at her little soirée. 

Draco had warned her, of course—he was, after all, the Minister’s Chief of Public Relations, in charge of polishing up that exceedingly progressive pro-Muggle image the Minister had unwittingly cultivated over her last two terms. But Narcissa never thought that the girl—she was hardly a girl now, was she—would deign to come.

It hurt, so very much, to see her again. It was much worse than seeing her on the pages of the  _ Prophet,  _ to see her arm-in-arm with that exasperating husband of hers—the one with a deep frown, making no effort to look pleased to be there. 

Sixteen years she had avoided seeing Hermione Granger, and there she was, in the flesh, drinking her champagne and ignoring her husband’s scowling. 

“Madam Malfoy,” she greeted Narcissa, her voice deeper, eyes crinkling in a genuine smile adorned with laugh lines the years had sculpted in her cheeks. “What a delight to be here; it’s a pleasure seeing you again.”

Narcissa could hear Ronald Weasley mutter something under his breath betraying his feelings to the contrary, but he was a little too easy to ignore. She took Hermione’s offered hand, expertly hiding a shiver at the meaningless touch, cursing her heart for never forgetting. 

“The pleasure is all mine, Madam Minister.” Narcissa drawled. Their hands lingered a touch longer than was appropriate, but she was caught off-guard by the strange glimmer in the Minister’s eye. 

“Funny,” Hermione said, brow arched, not quite letting go of Narcissa’s hand yet. “I have the strangest sense of  dejá -vu... When was the last time we met in person, Lady Malfoy?”

Narcissa heard Ronald grumble, but it was little more than background noise. Her throat was suddenly dry, and she had to reassure herself that it was completely normal—it was merely an after-effect of any memory charm. 

“Well, Madam Minister, we have attended a few functions over the years, but I believe the last time we spoke was...” she swallowed dryly “... nearly twenty-five years ago.”

Hermione was very clearly shocked. “That long? My, my...” she was interrupted by something Ronald muttered at her ear. She let go of Narcissa’s hand, turning to her husband with an exasperated look. “Behave yourself, Ronald,” she hissed under her breath. Narcissa pretended not to hear it. “Go find the bar and socialise.”

Ronald stormed off, not bothering to conceal his displeasure. Hermione seemed unfazed, and Narcissa tried not to think about all the tabloids that made headlines with the Minister’s crumbling marriage. 

“Well, Lady Malfoy,” Hermione continued, as if Ronald had not even been there. “I think it’s time we catch up, is it not?”

* * *

Hermione decided that Lady Malfoy was one intriguing witch. She had nearly botched her efforts to ingratiate herself to the old wizarding elite at that last fundraiser, so charmed she was by the witch. 

She couldn’t believe they hadn’t talked at all for the past twenty-five years. Her last solid memory of the captivating blonde witch was at the War Trials, during Narcissa’s and Draco’s acquittals and Lucius’ sentencing. Six years after that, Lucius had died, rotting away in Azkaban. Surely Hermione had attended the funeral, had she not?

There was something fuzzy, some memory she could not quite grasp. Every conversation she had with Narcissa was shrouded in a cloud of  dejá -vu—from the moment she greeted the elegant hostess to the end of the night when they parted ways; it was as if she were rediscovering something she already knew. 

It was most confounding, but no less intriguing than Narcissa herself. 

There was something utterly captivating about the witch, something Hermione could not put her finger on. Maybe it was the elegant way she milled about the crowd at the fundraiser; perhaps it was the effortless grace she carried in her every step. 

Hermione succumbed to sleep, hearing Ronald’s snores from the guest room, with images of blonde, greying hair in her mind’s eyes as she dreamed of blue eyes. 

* * *

“The House-Elves Rights bill was rather unconventional,” Narcissa conceded over tea, sipping it so daintily Hermione could not help but stare a little as she finished with a sceptical quirk of her brow. “But not quite as controversial as sending your own daughter to a Muggle primary school.”

Hermione’s expression soured. “Merlin, it’s not as if I’m telling everyone to do the same,” she argued, trying not to get lost in those blue eyes that looked straight into her soul through long lashes. “Rose’s grandparents are Muggles; I don’t want her to forget that part of herself.”

“And then there is the matter of your cabinet” Narcissa continued, unfazed. “Comprised entirely of Muggle-Borns.”

Hermione frowned. “They worked hard to be where they are.”

“No one is contesting that. But do you see how some of your decisions may affect a certain part of the population—a rather powerful part of the population?”

Hermione leaned back into her seat, hiding her grimace. It was true; her popularity had taken a few hits as of late, particularly with those who thought her administration to be excessively pro-Muggle. 

“You’re right,” she sighed. An idea struck, and Hermione leaned over the table they shared, taking Narcissa’s hand in her own. “How about you help me with some ideas? Say, about reshuffling my cabinet, or some more mingling with Wizarding high society?”

Was that a flush she saw creeping up Narcissa’s neck, tinging her cheeks ever so slightly with a dusting of pink?

“Ah, yes,” the blonde replied, her voice deeper, huskier than usual. “Yes, of course.”

* * *

This was madness.  _ Utter madness,  _ Narcissa thought as she waited for the Minister once again, at a particularly popular restaurant. 

They had been going on for a few months, these less-than-official rendezvous. Narcissa did not know in what capacity she was serving the Ministry at present, but Hermione had taken a few of her suggestions to heart, subtly ingratiating herself to members of the old guard by reshuffling parts of her cabinet, creating new committees, and taking the time to meet with rich old farts to at least pretend to listen to their opinions. 

These meetings, however, were something else entirely. Narcissa was too weak to stop them—she had realized she would be too weak the moment she saw Hermione again. The witch had not changed much over sixteen years—her face was older, her eyes harder, and her hair shorter, but her smile—that beaming, brilliant smile—had not changed one bit. 

Being seen in public with Narcissa Malfoy had done wonders to Hermione’s reputation with the so-called old guard. Narcissa latched onto that as a reason not to stop meeting with the Minister, even if her heart spoke of a truth she resolutely chose to ignore. 

Hermione walked in—with the usual  Auror security detail discreetly following behind—hand in hand with an unexpected appearance. 

“Rosie, this is Lady Malfoy,” she said to the little girl who was as bushy-haired as her mother, though with her father’s eyes. “What do we say?”

Rose Granger-Weasley locked eyes with Narcissa. Her eyes were wide and mouth agape in amusement and childish curiosity with this new person before her. 

“ Pweetty .” 

Hermione flushed to the roots of her hair, and Narcissa let out a laugh. She leaned down, eye to eye with the little girl. “Hello, Rose,” she said softly, smiling widely and taking Rose’s hand in a friendly handshake. “I’m Narcissa. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Would you like a biscuit?”

Rose gaped adorably, even as Hermione picked her up. “Sorry for the unexpected guest,” she said, settling Rose onto her lap as she sat down with an ease and comfort that were almost comical to see, as if she were not the leader of Wizarding Britain, with a world of responsibility on her shoulders. She sighed deeply. “Her father...” her expression soured as she went silent, lips pressing into a tight line of displeasure.

“Don’t be sorry,” Narcissa reassured her, taking one of Hermione’s hands in her own without thinking. “You don’t have to explain.” She turned to Rose. “I, for one, am glad for the company.”

“Biscuit!” Rose tittered, eyeing the tray that awaited them on the table. Hermione shot Narcissa a grateful glance, then reached for the tray, picking a frosted pink biscuit.

“Here you go,” she said to the little girl. She turned back to Narcissa. “So. Where were we?”

* * *

Hermione was in some kind of trouble, and she did not want to admit it. What had started as meetings to work on her political image had turned into something else entirely, something she did not want to name. 

She was plagued by dreams—dreams of sharp blue eyes and shimmering golden hair. There were voices in her head as she slept, familiar voices that haunted her mind in echoes. Sometimes she recognized her own voice. Sometimes, Narcissa’s. 

It became worse as time went on. Hermione noticed things about the other witch like she was doing so for the millionth time, and yet she was surprised by everything. The trill of Narcissa’s voice when she was excited, the glimmer of her eyes when she had kept a secret, the crinkle of her brows as they furrowed in thought. 

They talked about their lives, they laughed over shared jokes, they argued over government policies. Getting to know Narcissa was an exploration, one curiously filled with a type of nostalgia Hermione couldn’t quite place.

Everything about Narcissa intrigued her; everything stirred feelings deep in her chest she wasn’t sure belonged there. It felt as if she had robbed them, as if they had been stolen from another. 

And yet, she continued meeting with her. At some point—a point early on, earlier than she would ever care to admit—her desire to see Narcissa came not from the opportunity to save her career, but simply... simply from the opportunity to see a friend. 

And if Hermione tended to notice, more and more, how full Narcissa’s lips were, how they tugged into polite smiles, or how they pursed in displeasure, she chose to ignore that fact. If the inexplicable desire to feel those lips under her own began to torment her senses, she chose to bury that feeling deep inside. 

She had a career and a marriage to save. 

* * *

The divorce came as a crushing blow, expertly timed with the approaching elections. Every newspaper in the city printed the most horrendous headlines, each more ludicrous than the other.

Narcissa tossed the  _ Prophet  _ onto the table with a furious hiss. Hermione’s face was splattered onto the front page of every reputable and disreputable paper in the Wizarding world with the most preposterous accusations.

‘Frigid in bed,’ some of them said, in big, blocky letters. ‘Absent mother’, others elaborated in so-called articles. ‘Power hungry,’ seemed to be their overall consensus. None of them chose to comment on the apartment Ronald Weasley had leased in Bristol, one occupied by a  _ Witch Weekly  _ model, fresh out of Hogwarts. 

It made Narcissa sick to her stomach. This would surely undo much of the work Hermione had done in the past few months to mend her waning popularity—some of the papers’ most traditionalist writers were positively eviscerating her in their publications. 

She didn’t expect Hermione to come to her. Hermione, just Hermione—no  Auror security, no official Ministry badges. She knocked on her door, standing at the entrance of the Manor in jeans in a red jumper, hair in a messy bun, a far cry from the polished Minister Narcissa had befriended in recent months. 

“Hello,” she breathed out, voice hoarse with tears she had yet to shed. “Sorry. I, ah... I didn’t know where else to go.”

Narcissa could only stand at her open door, gobsmacked and unable to make a sound. She had heard that broken voice before, had seen those eyes brimming with unshed tears before. Like this, Hermione looked too much like the young witch she had left behind all those years ago. 

She had to turn her away. She had to, she absolutely had to, or else...

“Come in.”

* * *

They sat in silence in her drawing room, sipping tea. Hermione’s shoulders shook with silent sobs, and Narcissa’s heart broke all over again. She wanted to hold her—oh how weak she was, to want to hold her in her arms again, to cherish her again. 

“I’m sorry for barging in like this,” Hermione whispered, wiping at her tears. “I just... everything is crumbling all around me, but somehow...” she looked at Narcissa, and the older witch got lost in deep brown pools that shone with new tears. “Somehow I knew I could come to you.”

Narcissa swallowed dryly, not knowing what to say. “I’m very sorry to hear of the news,” she finally whispered, gesturing with a nod to the pile of newspapers on the table. 

“I’m not,” Hermione spoke clearly. “I should have seen it coming.” She exhaled forcefully, anger tinging her sadness. “I should have never married him in the first place. We were never right for each other.”

Narcissa could not stop her expression of surprise; Hermione saw it, and let out a dry, sad laugh. 

“I can’t say I regret it,” she said with conviction. “He’s given me Rose, after all. I love her with all my heart. But...” her eyes became sad again. “I never really wanted children. It took years of him cajoling and begging me, and then, when we hit a rough spot four years ago...” she trailed off. “I thought it was too late for kids, but I guess I was wrong.”

Narcissa could only nod. The hand holding her teacup trembled; she struggled to hold it just above the saucer so it would not clink with her nervousness. 

“I’m sorry, I must be boring you to tears. I don’t mean to bother you with the mess that is my life.”

“No,” Narcissa whispered. “It’s not a bother.” She stood, divesting herself of her teacup and giving Hermione another serving. She was surprised to feel Hermione’s hand on her wrist; the shock almost made her drop the teapot. 

“Narcissa.” She stopped when their gazes met, and for a moment, Narcissa worried she would instantly remember everything. The thought made her tremble in fear, and Hermione seemed to notice, as her eyes dropped to Narcissa’s hands. She took the teapot from Narcissa, setting it on the table, never letting go of Narcissa’s wrist.

Narcissa’s breath grew shallow. 

“Can I ask you something?” Hermione murmured, so low Narcissa strained to hear her. She could hardly focus with the gentle pressure of Hermione’s hands holding her own. 

“Anything.”

Hermione did not look at her. “Why is it that we get along so well? Why...” she took in a shuddering breath. “Why do I see you, why do I hear your voice in my dreams?”

Narcissa drew in a breath through her teeth, sharp and nervous. “I could not guess.”

Hermione chuckled sadly. “It’s funny. Ronald served me the papers a few hours ago, and you know what was the first thing I thought of?”

Narcissa felt herself being pulled closer, until she could feel Hermione’s breath ghosting her lips. “Hermione,” she whispered, but the warning she wanted in her tone evaporated before she could get anything more than the brunette’s name past her lips. 

It was hopeless. Despite her best efforts, they had found their way back to one another—because of her weakness, Hermione had fallen in love all over again. She could see it in her eyes, she could hear it in her breathless voice. Narcissa was far too weak to do anything about it; for sixteen years she had grown weaker and weaker.

“All I could think about,” Hermione continued, bringing a hand to Narcissa’s cheek in a caress only Narcissa could remember. She leaned in ever so close. “Was doing this.”

Sixteen years had gone by, and yet Narcissa remembered the feel of Hermione’s lips as if she had felt them only yesterday. She was powerless to stop the hungry kiss—she had been starving for years and years; and all she could do now was take it greedily. 

There was a snap of recognition; Narcissa felt it in her bones as keenly as Hermione felt it in her mind. Hermione pulled back sharply, eyes wide as if she were seeing Narcissa for the first time, and in that moment, Narcissa knew she  _ remembered.  _

“No,” she breathed out, and Narcissa remembered exactly the last time she heard that broken tone. She wiped at Hermione’s tears, unable to stop her own. The young Minister’s face contorted in a grimace of pain. “Tell me it isn’t true,” she sobbed, grasping at Narcissa’s face with an urgency that had never been there before. 

Narcissa could only nod, caressing Hermione’s cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

She felt Hermione’s arms encircling her, holding her tightly, too tightly. Hermione buried her face in her neck. 

“Why?” she sobbed as Narcissa felt tears on her skin. “Why did I let you?”

Narcissa did not have to say anything. Hermione remembered; with one touch the memories came back in a flare of burning pain. The secrets, the guilt, the shame that clouded their relationship for all its entirety, as well as the love, the laughter, the sweet caresses they shared. 

“It was for the best,” Narcissa said, taking Hermione’s face in her hands to look at her. “At least at the time.”

“No wonder I thought I knew you” Hermione whispered, the glimmer in her eyes going beyond sadness. “All this time... you were in my dreams. Your eyes, your lips, your voice...” her fingers wound themselves into Narcissa’s greying strands. “Your hair.” She laughed through a strangled sob. 

“It’s not what it used to be,” Narcissa said with a teary frown, eyeing the grey strands with disdain. “It’s been a long time.”

“You’re gorgeous,” Hermione countered with conviction, wiping Narcissa’s tears away with a gentle caress. “You were then, and you are now.”

Narcissa let out a chuckle, one that was overwhelmed by a fresh wave of sobs. The warmth of Hermione’s embrace, the feel of her lips, the adoration in her voice... it was all too much, far too much to bear after sixteen long years without. For the first time since that night in the Leaky Cauldron, she felt as if she could breathe without a crushing pain in her chest. 

“Oh, Narcissa...” Hermione cried as the other witch buried herself in her embrace. “I’m so sorry... so sorry you had to suffer for this long.” She held onto her, tightly. “You shouldn’t have to suffer for me.”

Narcissa sobbed harder, gripping at Hermione’s jumper as if she would fall away into nothingness if she didn’t. “I would do it again,” she choked out. “I would do it again, in a heartbeat.”

Hermione pulled her closer still, bringing her to her lap in a tight embrace. “You won’t have to. Ever.”

* * *

The aroma of jasmine filled the modest kitchen. A newscaster blabbered away on a television, little more than background noise. There was the soft clink of a teacup being placed on its saucer. 

“Don’t you miss it?”

Hermione looked away from the paper she perused, locking eyes with Narcissa. She smiled. 

“A little,” she said, tossing the  _ Prophet  _ onto the table. The headline read:  _ Egbert Brimble elected Minister of Magic.  _ "B ut Brimble’s got a good head on his shoulders. It’s time I retire.”

Narcissa rolled her eyes. “Retiring in your forties. Your generation is the laziest bunch of fools I have ever seen.”

Hermione laughed, wrapping her arms around Narcissa’s waist. She pulled her into her lap. “I worked  _ very  _ hard for a long time. I deserve a break.”

“Mhm,” Narcissa hummed, winding her arms around Hermione’s neck. “I do hope in your retirement you have enough time to pick up your daughter from school... Her teachers called—seems she found herself on the roof, somehow.”

Hermione let out a hearty chuckle. “Oh, I have time.” She caressed Narcissa’s cheek, pushing a stray strand of white-blonde hair away from blue eyes. “I have all the time in the world.”


End file.
